


This Would've Happened Anyways

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:48:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: A collection of canon divergent drabbles and shorter ficlets rated K to E. Ratings, warnings, and summaries for each chapter included in the Table of Contents, which you will find in Chapter 1. All pieces are Everlark unless otherwise noted.





	1. Table of Contents

  1. **_TABLE OF CONTENTS:_**



 

To make it a little easier to find what you’re looking for, I’m using the first chapter as a table of contents. It will be updated as I add chapters. All pieces contained within this work are Everlark unless otherwise noted. All pieces are canon diversion or alternate Panem stories, and all weigh in at under 5,000 words long. Summaries, ratings, warnings, source of inspiration, and word counts are included in all descriptions.

 

What you will not find here: stories written for organized challenges or special collections such as Prompts in Panem, Love in Panem, THG Write Me a Story, or Stories to Save Lives. Those are posted as stand alone pieces.

 

Thanks for reading! <KDNFB

 

* * *

 

 

  1. **_Going Down…_**



Canon divergence, within the timeline of _Catching Fire_ . Written as a Christmas/Birthday present for peetasbunmyoven, inspired by her tags on the infamous elevator scene. 2,433 Words. Written December 2014. **WARNINGS:** RATED M, mature sexual content

 

  1. **_The Teacher and The Baker_**



Canon Divergence, prompted by bohemianrider to write Everlark #4 single parent/teacher AU. Everlark is not reaped but the Games still affect them. 1,318 Words. Written January 2015. **WARNINGS:** RATED T, angst, mild sexual content

 

  1. **_Secret Kisses, Secret Wishes_**



Canon divergence, based on the prompt to write a “kiss in secret.” Katniss enters the Arena of the 74th Hunger Games with her best friend and hunting partner, but she’s really not sure what to make of one of her mentors -- the boy with the bread and victor of the 73rd Games. _5,113 Words. Written December 2015._ **WARNINGS:** RATED T, for canon equivalent mentions of violence, angst and kissing.

 

  1. **_Laurel Wreaths_**



Canon divergence, based on the dialogue prompt “You fainted, straight into my arms. If you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” Everlark in District 2, training to volunteer for the 74th Hunger Games.  _ 4,881 Words. Written April 2016.  _ **WARNINGS:** RATED M for sexual content. I didn’t mean to...it just sort of happened. 


	2. Going Down...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence, within the timeline of Catching Fire. Written as a Christmas/Birthday present for peetasbunmyoven, inspired by her tags on the infamous elevator scene. 2,433 Words. Written December 2014. 
> 
> WARNINGS: RATED M, mature sexual content

Haymitch dismisses us, still guffawing over the unexpected kiss Chaff planted on my lips. Hands joined, Peeta and I make our way to the elevator, leaving behind the obnoxious laughter of our mentor and his questionable friend.

 

I’m scowling and not in the mood to talk, but Peeta gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as we step on to the waiting elevator. Our suits have stopped throwing off embers, but still glow like hot coals. Just before the door shuts, a Victor dressed in a form fitting yet somehow leafy jumpsuit slips on and gives us a condescending smile.

 

Johanna Mason, District 7. Lumber and Paper. Hence, the leafy costume.

 

“Well you two look amazing,” she sneers as the doors shut and we begin our ascent. “Wish I’d gotten Cinna. My stylist is an idiot.”

 

She turns her back on us and removes the long hair extensions that gave her a swishy ponytail, tossing them aside.

 

“She’s dressed our tributes as trees for forty years,” Johanna goes on as she fluffs her short, spiky brown hair and kicks off her high platform shoes. “Ugh. I’d love to put my ax in her face.”

 

Johanna’s threat is punctuated by the clunk of one of her spiky cuffs that she’s unclasped and discarded.

 

“So,” she asks as she goes to work on the other cuff.  “What do you think? Now that the whole world wants to sleep with you.”

 

I scoff and roll my eyes. What a ridiculous notion. “I don’t think that the whole world—“

 

Johanna whips back around as the second cuff drops and stares at me. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

 

An awkward silence falls and she shifts to examine at Peeta, an appraising look on her face, and I realize she’d meant him. The whole world wants to sleep with Peeta? My eyes cut to the left, drawn to him. He’s watching, Johanna, though, his face unreadable.

 

My throat constricts as the idea takes root. Peeta. With someone else.Maybe several someone else’s. After these Games, he’ll be free to have whomever he chooses. It isn’t something I’d thought about when deciding which of us would live.

 

I don’t like the thought at all and quickly look away.

 

“Okay,” I mumble, biting my lip.

 

“Unzip?” She asks sweetly, stepping in front of him and presenting her back once more.

 

“Yeah,” I hear him say quietly as he lets go of my hand.

 

My head whips back around to look at him incredulously. Fury seethes under my skin as he reaches up and grasps the neck of her jumpsuit with one hand, lowers the zipper with the other. Is he crazy? Did he forget about our supposed romance? How could he, with me standing right here? I’m scowling daggers at him, and he must feel it because he nervously glances over at me then back at Johanna. He swallows, but continues lowering her zipper.

 

As soon as he’s done, he twines our fingers back together, although his eyes remain on Johanna. She spins and he sort of smiles at her, gives her a slight nod. I want to throw his hand away. I want my bow and arrows. I want…

 

I want Johanna to stop stripping.

 

She’s stepped back to the front of the elevator, facing both of us. She pulls first one arm out, then the other and drops the whole thing to the floor, a smug look on her face. Looking to the side, I watch the numbers climb closer to seven, wishing the elevator would go faster. Beside me, Peeta shifts. I can’t look at him. I just know he must be grinning like an idiot boy as Johanna steps out of her jumpsuit and kicks it aside. She’s completely naked now.

 

It’s an agonizing moment as we stand in complete silence other than the whoosh of the elevator passing supports.

 

Finally, we slow to a halt and the door slides open.

 

“Thanks,” Johanna calls out, turning on her heel. “We should do it again sometime.”

 

As soon as the door slides shut and we start moving again, Peeta clears his throat and I fling his hand away from me. He breaks into laughter and I give him my best glare. I’m starting to reconsider who I think should survive these games.

 

“What is so funny?” I bite out.

 

“Don’t you see, Katniss? It’s you.”

 

“What’s me?” I snarl.

 

“Why they’re all acting like this. Finnick with his sugar cubes and Chaff kissing you and Johanna stripping down.” He tries, unsuccessfully, to take on a more serious tone. “They’re playing with you because you’re so…you know.”

 

“No, I don’t,” I insist. I really have no idea what he’s talking about.

 

“It’s like when you wouldn’t even look at me naked in the arena, even though I was half dead. You’re so…pure,” he finally says.

 

“I am not! I’ve practically been ripping your clothes off every time there’s been a camera for the last year!”

 

“Yeah,” he says, clearly trying to calm me down, but he’s still laughing. “But I mean that you’re pure by Capitol standards. They’re just teasing you.”

 

Anger courses through my veins and I so badly want to wipe the laughter from his lips. I smash my fist onto the EMERGENCY STOP button, bringing the elevator to a teeth rattling stop. A second later, the lights flicker off, plunging us into semi-darkness. Some faint illumination from the city light streams through the skylights in the atrium, and inside the elevator, our suits still glow.

 

“What are you doing, Katniss?” The smile has disappeared from Peeta’s face, replaced by a look of astonishment. A memory surfaces, a whispered conversation I once overheard.

 

_ Do this to him and he’ll do whatever you want.  _ Well I want him to stop laughing at me.

 

Not caring if there are cameras in here or if Capitol goons are on their way to rescue us, I shove him against the glass back of the elevator.

 

“We’ll just see how pure I really am,” I bite out as I fumble with the high neck of his tunic, seeking out the hidden button and zipper. With a grin of triumph, I pop the button and yank the zipper down, revealing his chest. This, at least, is somewhat familiar territory, and I run my hands over the smooth surface. It appears that Portia didn’t let him keep his body hair this time. I’m not sure what to do with him now, though, so I tweak his nipples experimentally.

 

He jumps at the touch, although he’s smirking again, as though he knows how lost I am.

 

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

 

“No,” I snap. Taking one last look at Peeta’s laughing face for courage, I drop to my knees in front of him.

 

“K-Katniss.”

 

Ignoring Peeta, I grasp his pants and tug them down. He’s already half-hard, probably from Johanna’s exhibition. The thought makes me furious and I grab him with one hand. The skin is softer than I expected, and he flops a little in my grip. Peeta hisses and tries to stop me.

 

“Wha-what are you doing?”

 

“Shut up, Peeta.” I smack his hands away and take him in my mouth. The taste is a little salty, but otherwise not so bad. I start to doubt the things I overheard whispered at school.

 

“Stop. Katniss, I—oh fuck,” Peeta cries out as I start sucking on him. Alright, maybe there was some truth to the whispers.

 

His head bangs back against the glass and I glance up to judge his reaction. He’s gripping the hand rail, and biting his bottom lip. I continue sucking as he grows in my mouth. He fills my fist and I have to loosen my grip. Looking down, he shakes his head.

 

“You don’t have to. Why are you?”

 

I pull my mouth off of him, noting the way my lipstick has smeared over his length. I like how it looks there.

 

“Stop complaining and help me out here.”

 

Without waiting for him to respond, I swallow his now fully erect and very hard member. There’s no way I can fit him in my mouth anymore. I’m a little daunted, but try anyways.

 

Above me, Peeta hisses and his hips jerk. “Teeth, Katniss. Watch the teeth.” I deliberately scrape them lightly against his velvety skin. “Aaaaaahhhhh,” he moans out. I guess he likes that. So I do it again.

 

One of his hands reaches down and wraps around my fist that’s grasping him and squeezes. Taking this to mean I should hold him more firmly, I tighten my grip.

 

“Yes,” he chokes out, letting go once more. “Like that. Tongue.”

 

I bob my head, rubbing my tongue along his length and look up to gauge my success. He’s watching me, his pupils dilated so far I can barely see the blue anymore. They’re glazed over in wonderment but clearly trained on my mouth as he disappears inside it. Mouth hanging open, he lets out soft, gasping pants. In the remaining glow from his costume, his face is radiant. Beautiful.

 

Remembering a few tips I overheard, I join my fist to my lips, so that between hand and mouth, I’m applying friction to his whole length. He groans loudly and his hips buck into my face a little. He hits the back of my throat and I gag.

 

“Shit. Katniss, I’m so sorry. Just stop, okay?”

I shake my head, determined to do this to him, and resume, driven by anger and maybe the desire to have him remember me when he’s with the rest of the world instead of me.

 

“Seriously, Katniss. Stop. I don’t want you to—“

 

He quits talking when I hollow my cheeks and suck hard. His moans grow louder and more frantic and his fists twist on the hand rail. The sound of skin squealing against metal joins the chorus of his moans. Fascinated, I watch the chords of muscles in his arms flex and the tendons that bulge in his wrists. Then, he bites his lip again, although the action doesn’t cease the moans, only muffles them. I watch as his cheeks grow pink, the flush spreading down his neck and blossoming across his chest.

 

It gives me a strange sense of power, a thrill, doing this to him. Making him lose his neatly ordered words and his no doubt neatly ordered thoughts. I feel a stirring in my breast, a hunger. And I use it to suck greedily on him, to claim him.

 

The strangest thing of all, though, is the ache growing between my legs. I feel moisture seeping slowly from me, the hunger in my chest spreading to as yet untouched areas. Girls have talked about this, too, although I’ve never really felt it before. A little scared, I increase my efforts, wrack my brain for the details of that whispered conversation I once overheard.

 

Finally remembering something else, I bring my other hand up off the floor and search out his testicles, gently squeeze the delicate sac and begin massaging it.

 

With a ragged groan, Peeta’s hand shoots out and tangles in my hair, knocking my blackened half-crown to the floor. It pings and bounces across the tile, the noise extraordinarily loud in the small space. His fingers grip my scalp as he starts pushing gently on my head, increasing the speed at which I bob over him. Part of me is grateful for the help, since my neck is starting to ache.

 

Beneath my hand, I feel faint tremors. Peeta’s eyes grow wide and desperate.

 

“Katniss, move! Now!”

 

It’s too late. Besides, I want this. He pulses in my mouth and hot spurts of semen hit my tongue, the back of my throat. I try to contain it, but the foreign taste and the sheer volume overwhelm me.

 

“Fuck,” Peeta draws the word out as he cums in my mouth, and I am oddly proud that I’ve made him swear this much. I’ve never heard Peeta swear before today.

 

But I have my mouth and hands full, and the milky white substance starts to dribble from the corners of my mouth. I cough on the stuff and Peeta immediately pulls me off of him.

 

“Katniss, oh fuck, I’m so sorry.”

 

Swallowing what I can, I shake my head at him, still coughing a little, as I sit back on the floor. He tugs his pants back up and grabs the corner of his tunic, but the material is stiff and rough, not to mention still glowing. Instead, he retrieves Johanna’s discarded tree costume and wipes my mouth with the sleeve, apologizing once more as he sits next to me.

 

“I’m sorry, Katniss. I tried to warn you.”

 

Looking into his eyes, surrounded by dramatic makeup and yet still the same, kind blue I know so well, I smile smugly.

 

“I wanted to, Peeta. Still think I’m pure?”

 

He hangs his head and laughs bitterly.

 

“What?” I can feel the anger returning, erasing any sense of pride I felt moments ago at making him eat his words.

 

Then he looks back up at me, a soft smile on his lips, light in his eyes. “You’re pure for the Capitol. For me, you’re perfect.”

 

“Oh,” is all I can manage.

 

“But this really isn’t fair, you know.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

His hand comes to rest on my ankle and he squeezes. “Do you trust me?”

 

I nod and his hand travels up over my leather boot. I flinch a little when his warm palm comes in contact with my skin, right below my knee, but he continues up and leans his head down to softly kiss my uncovered shoulders. I shiver at the gentle touch, my breathing picking up. The ache between my thighs, forgotten as he finished in my mouth, roars back to life.

 

I relax my legs, allowing his hand to skim my thigh, up under my skirt and straight to the spot now craving his touch. Slowly, feather light, his fingers trace over the fabric covering the apex of my thighs, heated lips still caressing my shoulders, my neck. My head falls back as I revel in the sensations. I’ve heard about this too, from the whispers of other girls at school.

 

When his fingers shift aside the fabric of my undergarments, I stiffen and think about squirming away, but he starts nibbling on my ear.

 

“Peeta, I—“

 

“Katniss,” he whispers, the hot air of his words curls around my ear and neck, making me relax again and forget what I was going to protest. “Katniss, shut up.”


	3. The Teacher and the Baker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Divergence, prompted by bohemianrider to write Everlark #4 single parent/teacher AU. Everlark is not reaped but the Games still affect them. 1,318 Words. Written January 2015.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNINGS: RATED T, angst, mild sexual content

The paper flutters in her shaking hands. This can’t be real. An invitation. A summons. An order to the Capitol. She’s to be trained as a teacher, according to her aptitude tests, instead of sent to die in the mines. It means more money. More security. The chance her sister might make it through without needing tesserae.

 

She’s packed off to a school where they feed her Capitol lies until her ears bleed. Then she’s shipped back to Twelve and a river’s worth of scandal. Needing to see for herself, she spends a day in the woods until her haul includes a couple squirrels. With a teacher’s salary, she doesn’t really need this anymore, but there are others who once depended on her meat and have gone over a year without.

 

She’s also missed her woods.

 

The sight of a ring on the left hand of the baker’s youngest son makes her stomach churn, although she’s not sure why. They’ve never really spoken. A borrowed pencil, a passing comment. She stares at blue eyes filled with exhaustion, sadness, and …regret?

 

They make their trade and she tries to ignore the blond baby toddling around the apple tree, Delly Cartwright—that is Mellark—lounging in the shade.

 

When fall arrives, her eyes scan over the room full of youthful faces. They’re just sixteen, these students of hers. She vows she won’t get attached. It works for a few weeks, but by the end of her first year, she finds herself chanting once more in a sweltering square, pleading not only for her sister to be spared, but also for it to not be any of those thirty names.

 

That winter is harsh, and despite Katniss’s steady pay and hunting, Prim speaks of tesserae. The suggestion causes a fight and a flight. She’s only got two years left. They can stretch that long.

 

It’s in the winter that the baker’s witch of a wife leaves the world. The baker follows shortly after and the youngest son takes over the family business.

 

The rumors were already bad enough when it was just a baby born four months early. It’s when the boy’s eyes change from icy blue to smoky gray that the gossips turn truly cruel.

 

Within a couple years, the slurs and insults shift from muttered under breaths to called outright in the streets. When the boy is just five years old, Peacekeepers find the body of Delly Cartwright –that is Mellark—in an abandoned Seam house.

 

_ They say she died of broken heart. They say she hung herself. My guess is he beat her. Probably killed her too. Can you blame him? Look at what she did to him. Tricked him into a marriage and stuck him with a Seam brat. They say she was still seeing her lover. They say the lover killed her in a rage. They say, they say, they say… _

 

Katniss doesn’t believe a word of it.

 

While others shun the baker, Katniss continues to knock on his back door. He doesn’t try to defend himself or his dead wife. He doesn’t need to, not to Katniss. They speak not a word of fleeting glances across classrooms or burned bread in the rain.

 

But she never forgot the bread or the dandelion.

 

It takes years for the words to grow between them. Then the smiles. Then the laughter. And then, the casual brush of a hand, followed by a blush. The sadness lifted from eyes that long ago lost their spark. Until an accidental touch sends strange feelings thrumming through her gut. When it happens again, she licks her lips and watches his eyes grow dark.

 

She sees them on the weekends, covering stone squares with chalk renderings of pigs and cats and things. Two curly blond heads bent with smiles and laughter. Gradually, the gossips stop. They still sometimes shake their heads and cluck their tongues, confused at how a man could so clearly love a child not of his blood.

 

Her mother passes and she finds herself knocking on his door late in the day. Uncaring if people talk, she allows him hold her and cries out years of pent up tears and rage onto his shoulders while he caresses her back. When her tears are spent, she remains in his arms, not ever wanting to leave. She’s never felt this safe before. At least not since she was eleven and a silver-eyed, silver-voiced father knew exactly how to make her laugh.

 

Eventually, the baker asks her to bring their trades up front. She tells him she can’t. When he asks her why, she doesn’t give him words, instead pushing him into the shadows of the back room and stealing his breath with her lips. Stunned by her own boldness, she flees.

 

But the next day, she can’t stay away, somehow knowing this would have happened anyway. Stolen kisses turn to stolen nights and moans muffled with hands and lips.

 

She tells him she can’t get married. She can’t risk her children to the Reaping. Not when she adds thirty names to her list every year, thirty names she hopes to never see pulled from a glass bowl. She’s already risking raised eyebrows and wagging tongues when she patrons the stall in the Hob that discreetly sells birth control methods. She hopes he understands.

 

He insists he does. Looks pointedly at the blond boy up front, serving a customer with a friendly smile and smoke gray eyes.

 

Every summer, her eyes scan over the roped off pen full of youthful heads, bent low in fear and dejection. Internally, she says goodbye to each of them, never knowing which of them will be returning to her care in the fall. Sometimes, she wishes the Capitol aptitude tests had been wrong. Sometimes, she wishes she’d ended up buried in the mines.

 

He makes her forget with heated lips and tongues, whispered words that make her beg for more, always hungry for more.

 

They agree it’s better to keep this from his son. No need for more scandal to surround the boy, or risk a child’s innocent slip. At first, it angers her, being kept from this part of him, but she knows it’s probably right.

 

There comes a day, when a blond hair boy stands shaking in a roped off pen. She seeks out the father across the crowd and wishes he’d look up at her. Jawed clenched, he eventually does, his eyes burning in anger and powerlessness. Once his son is safe for another year, she lets him do what he will, losing himself and his mind between her legs.

 

It’s a shock as she stares at the list, the name Mellark screaming at her. On the first day of school that year, Seam eyes stare back at her from beneath honey blond curls, challenging her to treat him the way the other teachers had. Like trash.

 

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

 

Instead, she falls in love.

 

Rumbles of change and uprising spread through the District. The baker and the teacher take part. He’s tired of living in constant panic. She’s sick of listing hundreds of names. The hollow feeling that one year when she knew the name and the face. The weeks it took for him to bring her back from the edge of despair. How did the parents do this?

 

In summer heat, she says her goodbyes, hoping it’s not any of them. She’d thought this would get easier, once Prim was safe, but it only got worse. Her list of children to hope for has grown tremendously. Students. An eighteen year old boy with Seam eyes and fire, Merchant’s skin and hair, a Baker’s laugh and kind heart. A niece with blue eyes, black hair, healer’s hands, and wicked skills with a bow.

 

Not him. Not her. Not him. Not her. Not him. Not her. Please don’t let it be them.

 

It’s both of them.


	4. Secret Kisses, Secret Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence, based on the prompt to write a “kiss in secret.” Katniss enters the Arena of the 74th Hunger Games with her best friend and hunting partner, but she’s really not sure what to make of one of her mentors -- the boy with the bread and victor of the 73rd Games. 5,113 Words. Written December 2015. WARNINGS: RATED T, for canon equivalent mentions of violence, angst and kissing.

“What the hell, Gale!” I shout, slamming my palms into his chest as soon as he steps off the elevator on the twelfth floor of the training center. “What kind of stunt was that? Telling everyone that you’re  _ in love with me _ ?!”

 

He staggers back into a vase full of sickly sweet blooms. The porcelain monstrosity wobbles on its pedestal and then crashes to the floor, sending broken shards sliding across the floor. Gale ignores the mess, his eyes narrowing and his lip curling.

 

“Yeah, Katniss. I love you. This isn’t how I planned to tell you, you know.”

 

His biting tone only ignites the anger I’ve struggled to contain ever since he volunteered to take another boy’s place in the arena. It isn’t supposed to be this way. We had a deal. Gale is supposed to be with my family right now, taking care of them. The sickening feeling I felt after I shot that damn apple out of the pig’s mouth during my training session returns ten fold. I shove him again, releasing a snarl.

 

“So what? You were going to tell me in the arena? That’s even worse!”

 

“What’s going on here?” Haymitch’s voice sounds behind me and I whirl on him. He and the others have only just stepped off the elevator. Effie is clicking her tongue in disapproval, Portia holds her hand over her mouth, eyes wide in shock. Only Cinna gives me any kind of understanding. Except maybe  _ him. _ But I can’t bring myself to look at him just yet.

 

“This was your idea, wasn’t it? To make me look foolish!” I yell at Haymitch. All the bastard does is raise his eyebrows as my  _ other  _ mentor steps between us, calmly placing his hands on my upper arms and steering me away from everyone else.

 

His steadiness and warmth placate my frazzled nerves. I let him lead me into one of the opulent sitting rooms of our living quarters. Once inside, I pull away from him and stalk to the window.

 

“It was my idea, Katniss,” Peeta says softly. My spine stiffens and I squeeze my eyes shut.  _ Not him, too _ , I think as I fight back the feelings of betrayal. But for there to be betrayal, there would have to be trust. And how could I possibly trust Peeta Mellark? I barely know him. He deceived me, used me, made me ridiculous, same as Gale and the others. Still, I allow him to continue speaking in that soothing tone of his. The one he used to calm me down and reassure me after what could have been a disastrous private training session with the Gamemakers, and after my insufferable interview training with Haymitch.

 

“Maybe it wasn’t fair not to warn you. I apologize for that. Haymitch thought it would work better if you didn’t know. Then your reaction would be genuine. If it makes you feel any better, Gale knew you’d be angry.”

 

“He still went along with it, didn’t he?” I bite out the words, almost hurting my teeth in the process.

 

“It wasn’t meant to hurt you, Katniss. It was meant to make you appear desirable. Mysterious, intriguing. Not that you need help in that department. The audience is already leaning in favor of you, they simply want to know who you are.”

 

“They can’t have me!” I wail, knowing I must sound childish. “They’ve already taken everything else!”

 

“I know,” he says. And that's the thing. He would know. “Volunteering for your sister, your showing in the parade, your training score that no one can explain just yet. All you needed was one last push. Something to help balance out the target you and Gale have managed to put on your backs.

 

“You two are something they’ve never seen before. The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve,” he proclaims with sudden rancor. “They'll eat it up, assign you an identity and all you have to do is continue to surprise them. Keep them on their toes. And the sponsors will be lined up around the block.”

 

I stare out over the city lights, still fuming, but as his words sink in, it dawns on me that he’s right. Peeta is right. Tributes with the highest training score often die early in the Games. The others sometimes band together to take out the biggest threat first. And with our combined high training scores and the success of Cinna’s parade costumes, we’re actually favored. Which makes us a threat.

 

But now, no one in the Capitol audience will be able to forget me. Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, also flaming in love with her childhood friend, the boy who came here with her. One volunteer from 12 is unheard of, but two? That has caused a frenzy amongst the reporters. I volunteered to save Prim. Even though I’m still not sure why Gale volunteered, it will be easy to spin the story to make the audience believe he volunteered to protect me.

 

The Capitol loves stuff like that. Last year, Peeta won them over with his charm and humor, but also with the story of a girl back home he'd always had a crush on. He'd claimed that if he won, he would finally take the chance to tell her how he felt. Only I can't recall ever seeing him with a girl in the past year since he was crowned Victor. Even Delly Cartwright seemed to be keeping her distance. 

 

My eyes meet his in the glass, twin orbs of tormented blue. Was Peeta's tale all an act, too? Or had he just never found the courage after all? Or worse...had she rejected him? I don't know why she would. Victors are rich. Whoever she is, she and her family would never want again. Besides that, Peeta's kind and handsome, even without all the Capitol primping. 

 

I try to find another reason to be angry. But I can’t. It’s all so confusing. My best friend and I are going into the arena together. At least one of us won’t come out of there alive. I bite my lip and try to hold back tears. I can feel Peeta approach me from behind, warmth hovers over my shoulder, a phantom hand reflected back at me in the glass window. I lean towards the touch.

 

He and Cinna are the only people who’ve made me feel human here, justified for not celebrating my status as Tribute.

 

“I don’t know what to do, Peeta,” I whisper. The hand jerks back and he clears his throat. Without warning, the tough mentor who insisted I step up and take credit for my skills, demanded that I not give in or crumple after a rough day practicing for interviews with him and Haymitch returns.

 

“You stay alive, Katniss. Just like Haymitch told you to.”

 

I find my anger and use it to finally spit out the words. “What do I do if Gale and I are the last two standing? I can’t kill him.”

 

“It probably won’t come to that,” he says icily. I wipe the moisture from my eyes, not caring if I’ve smeared Cinna’s carefully applied makeup and turn to watch him leave the room. “But if it does, you know they have to have a Victor. The Games don’t work without a Victor.”

 

I swallow back bile, knowing that he’s just trying to prepare me for the worst. But the worst is something I cannot stomach. Something I can’t face.

 

“You have time to shower and change before dinner, if you like,” he throws over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

 

************

 

I can’t sleep. Strategies and possible arena landscapes whirl through my head as I try to determine my best strategy for surviving. After apologizing at dinner, Gale suggested we stick together in the arena, as if there was ever any doubt that we would. It will be better that way, the two of us working together as hunting partners. His words about how this would be no different than hunting game back in our woods pick at the edges of my brain. Still, I agreed to the plan. Anything else but allying myself with Gale is unthinkable. 

 

I need sleep now, but it won’t come. So I slip from my bed and head back up to the roof, the place Peeta showed me on our first night here, after he covered for me and Gale when I recognized the red-haired Avox. Gale had stormed off to his room and Peeta brought me here, seeking the truth of what he’d covered up so easily. Lavinia, he’d said her name was.

 

The wind whips over the roof and I watch him standing there, silhouetted against the city lights, his curls, clean and free of Capitol products, dance in the moonlight. I wonder what it must be like, to have survived an arena only to find you have to send someone else into it, to guide them through, knowing their chances of death are far higher than their chances of survival. No wonder Haymitch drinks. I briefly wonder how Peeta deals with it.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask. He startles and turns to face me, wincing as the swift movement must hurt his leg, the one he lost in his Games. 

 

For the first time, Twelve had a Career Tribute during Peeta’s Games. At first, the District had been stunned. But then his plan became clear to the audience, if not the other Tributes. He manipulated the other Careers and used their might to keep both himself and the girl from Twelve alive. When the Career Alliance inevitably broke, Peeta knew what each of the survivors would do, and so he was able to keep himself alive longer. At the end, it came down to an emaciated Peeta and the giant, vicious boy from District Two. When the Gamemakers finally drove them together, the fight was brutal and bloody. Both of them sustained horrible injuries.

 

Peeta won because the other Tribute bled out before he did. He managed to fashion a sloppy but effective tourniquet for his leg. By the time the trumpets finally announced him as Victor, it was too late to save his limb.

 

Panem was astonished. No one had expected the funny, charming fifteen year old boy from District 12 to win. I certainly didn’t. I search now for some sign of the boy who once threw two loaves of burned bread to a starving girl in the rain, providing her with the spark of hope that made it possible for her to not only survive, but to provide for her family.

 

His face softens, the cool mask of the Victor and Mentor falling away, and for a moment, I glimpse the boy who could never quite meet my eye in school.

 

“No,” he says. “You?”

 

I wrap my robe tighter and look out over the city. “Did you, the night before you went in?”

 

“Course not. Are you thinking about your family?” I’m hit with a wall of shame mingled with anger. My fingers and toes practically burn with it.

 

“I was...no, it’s too painful to think about them.”   
  


“I can understand that.”

 

“Is that what you thought about? On your last night? Your family?”

 

“No, it wasn’t,” he scoffs lightly and once more faces the city lights. I pad my way over to stand beside him, lean against the railing. Maybe he’s been a bit of a hard-ass on me and Gale, but I can recognize that he’s just trying to help us, especially when he gifts me with these softer moments. When he’s the boy with the bread again, if only just for me, for just a few stolen moments.

 

We stand in silence, and I’m not expecting him to expand on his denial.

 

“I spent my last night thinking about how I wanted to die as myself. It never occurred to me that I might actually win.”

 

“I don’t understand,” I say. “How could you die as someone else?” Confusion furrows my brow.

 

“I didn’t want to become a monster in the arena,” he explains with a kind smile. “I wanted to show the Capitol that they didn’t own me. That I was more than just another piece in their Games.”

 

Fighting back my feelings of inferiority, I send my glowers out over the roofs of the city. Peeta Mellark spent what he expected to be his last nights alive worrying about his purity of self. And I’ve been ruminating on the availability of resources and how exactly I can let my best friend die without killing him. 

 

“How did you do it? Not become a monster?”

 

“Well I’m still working on that,” he answers lightly, and I finally face him, stunned by the spark of levity I find in his eyes. “I’m not proud of some of the things I did in there. But I couldn’t go down without a fight either. And my  _ reward _ ,” he sneers out the word, “Is to never stop being the piece in their Games that I never wanted to be.”

 

He gestures between us. Us. He’s talking about me. And Gale. And how Peeta now has to send us into the same nightmare he already lived. It’s his first year as mentor, and Twelve rarely has Victors. Never have we had back-to-back Victors. Tomorrow I could be dead. There’s something I’ve never said and it weighs on my chest. I think of Prim and my mother at home. Even if I win, will I go home a monster to them?

 

It’s not a line of thought I can afford to follow, but the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

 

“I never thanked you.”

 

Peeta grimaces at my words. “You’ve got no reason to be thanking me.”

 

“No, not for being a good mentor, although you were that, too,” I stammer over the words. “I meant for the bread.”

 

“The bread?” he asks and for a moment, I’m sure that I was right that day of the Reaping when he placed a hand on my shoulder to guide me into the train and protect me from the cameras being shoved in our faces, when I thought he didn’t remember that hollow day in the rain. “You mean from when we were kids?”

 

My face flushes at his incredulous tone. “You didn’t have to give it to me. I just...didn’t want to die still owing you for it.”

 

“Wow,” Peeta says and I am about to fly off the handle at his cavalier attitude. “Katniss you don’t owe me a thing.”

 

I try to argue, to tell him that I do. That if I live through this, I will never stop owing him for saving my life. But he cuts me off.

 

“You still have some night left. You should try to get some sleep.”

 

“My family,” I whisper. “My sister. If I don’t…”

 

I stare at the ground while he stares at me, following my half spoken sentence to it’s logical conclusion.

 

“I’ll make sure they’re taken care of,” he promises. I meet his earnest gaze and relax. I believe him. “But you have to promise me that you’ll fight. That you won’t give up. They need you more than anything.”

 

“I promise,” I whisper, thinking about how similar my promise to Peeta is to the one I gave to Prim.

 

“Then so do I. No matter what happens in the next few days, your family is taken of, alright?”

 

I nod and leave him on the roof. With the comforting knowledge that my family will not starve if I die, I walk back to my room and slide between the covers. Surprisingly, I manage to sleep.

 

**********

 

It ends up being me and Gale. 

 

We stand next to the Cornucopia as they take away the bodies of the boy from District one and the girl from District Two. Tears fill my eyes as my mind scrambles for a way out of this. I can’t kill him. I can still hear the screams of the girl as my first arrow pierced her shoulder. See the look of shock on her face when the next came flying straight for her eye. 

 

We stand there and stare, our families trapped in the air and the unspoken words between us.

 

And then I’m not thinking of Gale or my family, but of Peeta, up on the roof. It isn’t the first time I’ve thought of him in here. I thought of him as I held Rue while she died.

 

Sweet, resourceful Rue, with whom I formed an alliance with against Gale’s wishes. When she died, I thought of Peeta and his words about not being pieces in their Games. So I buried her in flowers and sang to her. You don’t memorialize a token in a game.

 

He’d done something similar last year, when the girl from Twelve died. He’d sung a District funeral song over her body, his voice rough and untrained, but raw with emotions. 

 

And I thought of Peeta every time I forced my lips to Gale’s, to play the role of star-crossed love. It seemed to be working. There was that rule change, at least until now.

 

The announcement echoes in through the arena, and I know this was another Gamemaker trick. Maybe Peeta and Haymitch engineered the rule change in the first place, I don’t know. But the Gamemakers never intended to let both of us live.

 

I remember his words about them needing a Victor. And about how we’re something they’ve never seen. How I should just keep them guessing. I realize that I’ve been played. We’ve been played right into their scheme to orchestrate the most dramatic final showdown the Games have ever seen. They need a Victor…What if they weren’t going to get one? What would they do then?

 

I glance down at my belt and pull out my knife, stare at the metal as it glints in the newly risen arena sunlight. Then I lift my head to look at Gale.

 

“Gale,” I say in a choked voice. “Do you trust me?”

 

I turn the knife on myself and hold its point against my chest.

 

“Catnip, wait…”

 

“They need a Victor,” I echo Peeta’s words to him. “Or the Games don’t work.”

 

His eyes cloud with anger and I watch him work through my words. My hands shake violently and I’m afraid he won’t figure it out, the gamble I am taking. But then, he pulls out his own knife and looks to me for approval as he turns it on himself, the point aimed straight for his heart.

 

“On three?”

 

I nod and he licks his lips, clearly mulling something over before he speaks.

 

“I love you,” he says. My heart sinks. I don’t want those words. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever. How can he do this to me? But I have a role to play, so I force myself to speak.

 

“I know,” I manage, and it’s the wrong thing to say. I can see it in his eyes. Like I know he can’t help loving me, but that I don’t love him back. I don’t know if I can. Not after what we’ve been through. I don’t know if I can love anyone. Not even in this moment right before we may both die. Gale’s spine straightens and he nods, then he begins to count.

 

“One, two--”

 

“WAIT! STOP!! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR VICTORS!”

 

Our knives drop to the clearing and Gale’s arms wrap around me. I melt into his embrace.

 

************

 

It tears us apart, pretending to be deliriously in love. First in the Capitol and now on the tour. In public, we hold hands. We kiss and dance. Our mothers are ecstatic for us. When the cameras leave, he glowers and I turn my back on him. Unable to let myself love him. How could I? How could I open us to the possibility of a future? To the possibility of children who might be forced into the Games. He has to know any children we had would be guaranteed a spot in an arena. After the stunt we pulled, and the visit from Snow, reminding me that everyone I love is at risk unless I convince Panem of my deep, abiding love for Gale.

 

Nightmares plague me on our Victory Tour. One night, they are so bad, that Peeta shakes me awake. I cling to him, begging him not to leave.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispers as he holds me, strokes his hand over my back to soothe me. “I get them too. Every night.”

 

I turn my face into his neck and breathe in his clean scent. “How do you face them?”

 

“I paint. Or I walk.”

 

His paintings. That’s right. I remember now that painting was his Victor talent. His work is gorgeous and hauntingly real. I try to recall some of the paintings of his that I’ve seen. Vivid images of his Games and of our District come to me in swift succession. And now, as a Victor myself, I can recognize the pain and fear behind the brushstrokes.

 

“I was walking tonight when I heard you,” he releases me and shifts, stands away from my bed.

 

I watch him leave, wanting to call him back, but unsure how to make him stay. The next night, he shakes me awake again, and this time, when I ask him to stay, he shakes his head.

 

“Gale…”

 

“I asked you,” I tell him, unwilling or unable to explain the rift forming between me and Gale. The angry words and expectations I can’t seem to fulfill. All I know is that Peeta is steady and warm, and I am terrified of my dreams. 

 

Every night after that, I let Peeta into my bed, asking him to stay with me. The nightmares still come, but he wakes me sooner, and in his arms, they don’t make as many repeat appearances. His hands card through my hair as we breathe together, and I think of how he kept a long vigil his last night in the arena, his leg bleeding as he waited to die or be crowned Victor. Did he think of that girl he had a crush on to keep himself conscious? Was he fighting for her?

 

“Who was she?” I ask in the dark and Peeta’s hand freezes. “The girl you mentioned in your interview. The one you had a crush on. Who was she?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Peeta whispers. “She loves someone else. They’re practically engaged.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” I say as his fingers resume their caresses, pulling me back into slumber.

 

************

 

The square is hot and dry as we stand on the stage. Three male Victors, one female. Two of us bound for a second trip to the arena. My name is no surprise. And truthfully, I am not surprised when they call Gale’s name, either.

 

“I volunteer as Tribute,” Peeta’s voice rings out clear across the square.

 

Gale reaches out and grabs his arm, but Peeta shrugs him off, a hard look on his face. He moves to stand next to me as my insides pitch and heave.

 

_ Not Peeta,  _ I think as I fight my face to conceal my thoughts. I hold it together as they drag me to the train without getting to say “good-bye” to my mother and sister. I even manage to keep it together as Gale steps up and starts outlining strategies on the train. We’re old hats at this by now, the four of us, since Peeta insisted we start training as soon as the Quell announcement was made.

 

When Gale and Haymitch finally suggest Peeta and I get some rest, I follow him to his compartment and shove my way inside before he can shut the door.

 

“Why?” I hiss at him.

 

“Isn’t it obvious, Katniss? Whatever resistance you two have managed to stir up could be crushed by sending you both back into the arena. I can’t keep you out of there, but I can keep him out.”

 

He opens the door and motions for me to leave. I refuse to believe that’s it. The fledgling rebellions in the District cannot be his only reason for throwing himself back into the arena.

 

“I won’t let you die for me,” I tell him on the threshold. For a moment, he looks panicked, and then his eyes narrow.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.” 

 

Then he shuts the door, leaving me feeling hollow and missing my friend. It’s what he’s become over the last year, as I dealt with my growing disgust with myself and what I did in the arena to the other Tributes, to Gale. I have faked this romance and pushed it so hard, I feel as though I’m hemorrhaging.

 

That night, the dreams revisit me, as awful as always. I leave my room, hoping maybe Peeta is awake too somewhere, so we can talk the way we did on the Victory Tour and nearly every day since. So he can hold me and tell me that what I see isn’t real.

 

I find him in the TV room, reviewing tapes of old Games, part of his training strategy for us. He stands as soon as he sees me and says nothing, just opens his arms for me. I fall into them and release a shuddering breath as his warmth envelopes me, his lips pressing to a point on my neck. We sway with the train and he whispers an apology. I whisper one back. Without another word, I lead him to my bed.

 

In a week, one of us will be dead, and I no longer care if I’m supposed to share this feeling of rightness with Gale. I share it with Peeta. As we lay in the dark, managing the demons, I think of how different things might have been if it had been me and Peeta in that arena last year. Would we have found each other and held one another the same way we do now? Would we have discovered a way to trick the Gamemakers into letting us both live?

 

I suppose Peeta is right. It doesn’t matter.

 

“I never told her. The girl I spoke of in my interview. When I got home, I realized pretty fast what a mess I was. A monster. And I thought she didn’t deserve that. She deserved someone who wouldn’t destroy her life, no matter how much money and security I came with. So I stayed away, didn’t say a word.”

 

He presses a soft kiss to my forehead as I think back on all the little touches and the kindness he’s shown me since I volunteered for Prim. The careful way he’s held me and yet held himself away. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine the boy with the bread as his blue eyes flit away from mine in the school hallways. I wonder how I didn’t see it sooner. 

 

“Then I became a monster, too,” I murmur. Part of me wishes it were a lie, but another part of me knows it’s the truth.

 

I tilt my head back and meet his eyes. They appear glassy in the soft glow of the train’s night lighting.

 

“You can’t think like that,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair off my forehead. “You have to live. To fight. For your family if nothing else. They still need you.”

 

His words recall our last night before my first Games.

 

“What about you?” I ask.

 

“Nobody needs me, Katniss.” He says it as though it were a fact, cold and unchanging. No self-pity. No bitterness. Just truth. Maybe he’s right. His family and friends would continue after a time of grieving. Even Haymitch could probably drink away his sorrow at losing his first Victor. But me…

 

I close my eyes and lean closer to him, so I can feel him breathing against my lips.

 

“I do,” I say. “I need you.”

 

Before he can protest, I kiss him, sealing our mouths together and swallowing his half-formed words, tasting them with my tongue. I allow myself to accept it, what’s real. I’ve wanted to kiss him for a long time.

 

Eventually, he gives up on talking and shifts so he can wrap his arms around me fully, rolls so that I sprawl on his chest as unbearable heat licks its way over my skin. Instinct tells me to brace my knees on either side of him, to straddle him so that our bodies are linked as closely as possible. I tangle my fingers in his hair and feel the softness, drinking the sounds as he groans and shifts his hips so that his emerging hardness brushes against me. I gasp at the shiver of delight this causes and then his tongue is in my mouth.

 

Gale’s never kissed me like this, I briefly think before I am consumed with the kiss and thoughts of only Peeta when my brain actually manages to settle on a thought. Otherwise I am nothing but heat and hunger, seeking his light and every small caress of his fingers over my scalp and skin. I’m expecting the feelings to taper off in satisfaction or disappointment. But they don’t. I’ve known all kinds of hunger, but never one like this. His kisses only make me need more.

 

The train sways and a bell clangs loudly outside as we pass through one of the District stations at full speed.

 

Peeta tears his lips from mine, remorse written all over his face.

 

“You’re engaged,” he whispers. “To Gale.”

 

He shoves me off of him and stumbles from the bed, getting caught in the sheets. He sprawls to the floor and I sit there, stunned, watching as his fingers curl into the carpet before he gingerly regains his feet.

 

“This was a mistake,” he says, motioning to the bed. To me. “All of it. I knew it on the Victory Tour but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I just wanted a taste. One small taste of what it’s like to be loved and not seen as a murderer.”

 

I shake my head, a denial on my lips.

 

“No, Katniss. You don’t really love me. I let it go too far. And I am so sorry.”

 

It isn’t until he’s left me that I’m able to find my voice. I sit there, grasping onto the feelings of lightheaded happiness that filled me while I kissed him. But they’ve fled with him, leaving only a hollow of dead brush where flowers could have grown.

 

“Stay with me, Peeta,” I croak, knowing he won’t answer me this time.


	5. Laurel Wreaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence, based on the dialogue prompt “You fainted, straight into my arms. If you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” Everlark in District 2, training to volunteer for the 74th Hunger Games. 4,881 Words. Written April 2016. WARNINGS: RATED M for sexual content. I didn’t mean to...it just sort of happened.

**REAPING DAY - 76th Hunger Games**

 

We’re assembled in the square nearly a full hour before the broadcast is scheduled to start. It’s a warm summer day, almost pleasant in the cheerful atmosphere. For the hundredth time, I search the crowds ringing the square until I find them again, a pair of blonds in pale green dresses, white flowers woven into their hair in a semblance of a laurel wreath. The mark of a potential Tribute’s family.

 

My family couldn’t afford the expensive store-bought laurel wreaths that most of the other families are wearing, although my mother did finger the leaves of one as we spent yesterday morning shopping in the town square. Instead, I woke early this morning and hiked further into the mountains, to the meadow, and gathered armfuls of the white blossoms flourishing there to fashion wreaths for my family. My mother. My sister. The only two people in this world that I truly care about. If I win, I’ll be able to buy them real ones, the leaves preserved in gold foil.

 

My chest constricts a little as Primrose says something, drawing a laugh from my mother. I haven’t seen them in months, not since I was brought here for Advanced Tribute Training. ATT, or as we affectionately call it, A Tall Tale. Because it’s both the best and worst kept secret of District Two.

 

All of the other Districts must know that we train for the Games. We always show up far more prepared. But we’re not allowed to talk about ATT outside of our District. Not that it usually matters, since I’ve never been beyond the borders of District 2, but today, it might.

 

Prim spots me and waves, her smile wide on her face. I manage a soft smile and a nod for her, but otherwise maintain my serious demeanor. It wouldn’t do to reveal any form of weakness. Not anymore. I’ve already shown too much.

 

The sun dips behind a cloud, casting shadows across the town. My eyes relax now that it’s light isn’t glaring off the abundance of marble columns. The sweat that has already formed on my scalp, trapped beneath tightly braided and coiffed black hair, begins to cool rapidly and I have to suppress a shiver.

 

I’m doing this for them. For my mother and for Prim. It’s the only real way for us to have a decent life. Today, the chill on my body is welcome.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**SIX MONTHS AGO**

 

“Stand up straight! No chatter in the ranks!”

 

My spine stiffens automatically in response, the heaving breaths of twenty-two Tributes in training puffing into the cold morning air. My head is spinning from the near dead sprint up into the mountains. My muscles burn and yet the skin stretched taut over my aching thighs is ice cold. Sweat pools in the pockets of warmth between my clothing and skin.

 

“What is our goal?” Brutus yells, his voice ricocheting off the towering stone around us.

 

“Victory!” forty-two voices respond.

 

“You get five minutes to recuperate!” Ennobaria announces as she walks between the two rows we formed this morning. “Listen up!”

 

“You’ve been chosen as the most skilled in your individual areas of combat expertise. Each of you has something unique to offer. An angle to play. Remember, at the end of the day, even though you might come home in a box, if you come home at all, this is still nothing more than a Game!” Brutus coaches. As he struts past me, I try to focus on his words.

 

“With your life as the prize!” Ennobaria growls and shoves a trainee at the end of the line upright. “Show some respect for a Victor!”

 

My eyes are watering, and I know I’m not the only one suffering from the altitude. We started below the timber line this morning, and now, only a few stubby pine trees surround us. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back my thoughts. That this is ridiculous. All of it. But unlike most of these other plebes, I have a reason to be here. Something greater than Victory. I don’t give a shit about their prizes beyond what they mean for my family. 

 

Survival.

 

“You have been chosen to continue your training. Advanced combat. You will learn to fight and survive in the harshest conditions possible. You will freeze and starve! You will sweat and you will be injured! If you can survive this, nothing the Gamemakers or the other Tributes throw at you will surprise you!”

 

I’m still busy trying to keep my breathing even, to not give away how much our hike up here affected me. To keep this sparkling blackness encroaching on the edges of my vision from fully covering my eyes. I sway a little, using all my remaining strength to stay on my feet.

 

“All of you will be eighteen years old at the next Reaping, but only half of you will finish this course,” Brutus continues.

 

“Hear that, Cutlets?” Ennobaria asks as the boy standing next to me bends over and vomits on his feet.

 

I close my eyes and open my mouth to avoid the stench. The sparkling blackness takes over as Brutus’ voice retreats into the distance.

 

“Fuck man, just leave her,” someone says nearby. “Easy cut right there.”

 

I feel like I’m floating for a second and then awareness returns. I’m pressed against something solid. And bouncing. I open my eyes, squinting against the cold mist stinging my face.

 

“It’s the first day,” a voice right in front of me says.

 

“Exactly,” huffs the first voice and I realize that I’m being carried, my arms draped over a pair of broad shoulders, my hands clamped in a pair of large, cold hands, my legs dangling as my chariot runs with me on his back. My cheeks flame with humiliation and I struggle to free myself.

 

“Whoa there,” he says, and I groan inwardly as I recognize the voice of my chariot. Peeta Mellark. Great. Just what I need.

 

“There’s a push up station just around that bend,” Peeta talks, his words breathy as he must be struggling to breathe at this altitude, with my extra weight on his back. “I’ll put you down there.”

 

“I don’t need to be carried,” I insist coldly. Peeta just chuckles, the sound low and rumbly against my middle.

 

When the group stops, Peeta’s grip on my hands loosen and I practically leap away from him, dropping to the ground to start in on our push ups. I stare at the ground as it rises to meet my face and retreats with each pump of my arms. I can feel his eyes on me, burning holes in the crown of my scalp.

 

We’re not friends. We can’t be friends. And he’s done me no favors by helping me. Still, I risk one quick glance up, and startle at how close he is. Peeta grins. I growl in frustration. This is not how I needed my first day of ATT to go.

 

Brutus shouts for us to get moving and I stagger back to my feet, falling briefly against Peeta’s arm. He reaches out to steady me before I shove myself away in disgust.

 

“Don’t touch me again. I never said you could in the first place,” I huff and start running again as the group moves deeper into the rock crevices near the tops of the mountains. The asshole has the audacity to laugh.

 

“You fainted…straight into my arms.” he whispers, but it may as well be a shout for the way it echoes in my ears. “You know Everdeen, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

 

I glare at him and snort in disbelief. “In your dreams, Mellark.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**REAPING DAY - 76th Hunger Games**

 

“You ready, Cutlet?” a snide voice asks as an elbow digs into my side. I glance over and tilt my head back to look at Marbel Bixby. One of my fellow trainees. I shrug. Marbel nods in understanding. 

 

As skilled as I am with a bow, she is just as good throwing her knives. She’s decent at close quarters combat, but not as good as some. Her sister volunteered for the 74th Games but was killed at a Feast. Marbel says Clove taught her everything she knew before she went to the Games. It shows. Like Clove, Marbel never misses with her knives.

 

There’s not much else to say after that. She’s not my friend. We don’t have friends. It’s really not encouraged, even though Marbel and I are both girls, which means we won’t go into the arena together. Still, the Victors and our other trainers made it clear. Attachments make things difficult in the arena. Complicated. Because in the end, only one of us survives.

 

Of course, they want us to be able to work well together, since the Tributes from District Two traditionally form an alliance with those from District One. When you know that at least one of you is going to die, though, there can’t be any kind of trust. Or attachment. 

 

“Ladies,” a smooth voice drawls behind me. I know before I turn around, just from the way Marbel straightens her shoulders and widens her stance, a sudden flush staining her cheeks, that it’s Cato Alexander. Victor of the 74th HUnger Games, probably on his way to the stage. He made my life hell for the past six months. Once the story of my fainting incident on the first day of training got around, Cato made it his mission to get to me to wash out, or at least it seemed that way.

 

He berated and beat me up, nearly took my head off with his trademark sword. Grabbed my ass when no one else was looking, and whispered obscene things that should be reserved for the lips of a lover at every chance he got. All it did was piss me off more. And in the end, I made it through.

 

I roll my eyes as he walks away, and Marbel stares after him. She wants him. Everyone knows it, although why, I’ll never be able to figure. He’s a pig. And her sister had to die for him to live. Whatever. Marbel can have Cato for all I care. They deserve each other.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**FIVE MONTHS AGO**

 

Atalanta’s fist finds my kidney and I grunt as I crumple to the ground. I try to ignore the sniggering on the sidelines. I know what I’ll find. A row of smirking faces. Already, eight trainees have been cut from the program. You can still volunteer for the Games if you’re cut, but your chances of winning are significantly reduced.

 

“Get up, Cutlet,” Atalanta insists. I grunt but force myself to my feet, resuming my fighting stance. Atalanta’s lips twitch a little and she continues the lesson. 

 

They call us Cutlets because we’re fresh meat. Young and tender, ripe for cutting. I refuse to get cut.

 

By the end of the day, I’m sore and dreaming of my bed. It’s not much, but it’s mine. At least for now. I’m used to sharing a bed, and since I came here, this is the first time I’ve had a bed to myself. Took me awhile to get used to it, but the truth is, I prefer it that way. At least here. My host family was generous enough to provide me with my own bed, if not my own room. I share with their daughter. She’s eight and in many ways, reminds me of a much younger Prim. One night, she confessed to me that she wanted to volunteer one day as well, just like I was doing.

 

Her words left a sick feeling in my gut and a foul taste in my mouth. I couldn’t tell her that I’m doing this because if I don’t, we might starve.

 

The sun hovers above the peaks as I leave the gym and head out towards the edges of town. I miss my home, my small village buried deep in the mountains. Far away from the center of the District. From the Peacekeeper training centers and the Mines and the beating heart of the Capitol’s defenses. I feel like I can breathe out there. Here, I feel suffocated.  

 

I duck my head as I pass by several Peacekeeper trainees, joking during their time off. I don’t want them to recognize me. Not yet, at least. I’m hoping to erase their memories of my face with new ones. The face of a Victor.

 

“Hey,” a voice calls from the doorway of a house I pass. “Everdeen.”

 

Glancing sideways, I nearly groan. Peeta Mellark, again. I wish he’d go the fuck away. He’s from my village, a constant reminder of home and my family and everything I miss so much it hurts. I shove down the pain and the annoyance and walk over, stopping as he shuts the door to the house he just came out of.

 

“Rough day,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

“And what of it?” I asks in a biting tone. I’m in no mood to take more shit.

 

“So here’s the deal,” Peeta says, holding my gaze. “You and I both wanna win this thing. But that’s not gonna happen.”

 

“This sounds a lot like the buildup to an alliance, Mellark,” I warn. The trainers made it clear, no alliances until we hit the train bound for the Capitol.

 

“You wanna throw away a good deal, then be my guest,” Peeta turns his back on me, giving me a perfect view of the bruises on the back of his neck from yesterday. When he had his hand-to-hand training. Not with Atalanta, but with Brutus himself. I can’t help but think of another set of bruises on Peeta’s pale skin.

 

“Will you stop trying to help me!” I yell, Peeta’s shoes scrape on the stone streets as he halts and turns back around to face me.

 

“I will when you stop trying to help me,” he whispers. How does he do that? It’s not the first time Peeta’s whispered to me, and yet his words feel so loud in my skull that I want to press my hands to my ears.

 

The bread. The drawings. The fainting. The climbing. And now this. As we stare one another down, I can’t help but relive every instant that we’ve already protected each other.

 

With a couple loaves of bread, Peeta kept my family from starving after my father was branded a traitor for inciting rebellion and had to flee the District. We were ostracized, and I can’t help but hate my father, who I used to adore, for the havoc he left us to deal with. That damned burned bread and the fucking dandelion the next day. I wish I could say I did it on my own, but I was only ten. It took Peeta’s act of compassion and a stray weed to remind me of everything my father taught me. I hadn’t wanted to do it, to use the gifts he gave me before he betrayed and abandoned us, but I had no choice. It was use the woods around our village to keep my family alive or slowly starve to death. Watch my baby sister starve to death. No fucking way.

 

It was never easy, though, which is how I ended up here, aiming for a Victor’s winnings and respect. For my family. So they’ll never know hunger or be slighted again.

 

I tried to repay the favor. Some kids at school found a bunch of sketches in Peeta’s notebook at school when we were eleven. Flowers, of all things. He had drawn pages and pages of beautiful blooms. Drawing isn’t the act of a Victor, which is the standard we live by in Two, so the kids circled him. I recognized the tactic. A pack ready to tear into their prey. It was stupid of me, but I stepped in, drew their anger away from Peeta and onto myself. Only the bell saved me from more than a few scratches and bloodied knuckles.

 

The next day, they picked on Peeta again. But this time, he stood his ground, made use of his time spent on the junior wrestling team. The bullies left Peeta alone after that.

 

Then I fainted into his arms on day one, and he carried me until I came to. Pushed me to keep going, not give up. To not cave to my fear of failure.

 

A few weeks later, he couldn’t figure out a simple climbing exercise. Climbing is in my blood. And fair is fair, so I showed him how to do it, and didn’t say a word when I caught the flashes of fear in his eyes. Peeta Mellark is afraid of heights.

 

So we stand there in the middle of a street, sizing the other one up, deciding if an alliance is feasible or even possible at this stage of the game.

 

“What are you offering?” I ask. Peeta just smiles and starts walking down the street.

 

“Come on,” he says. And I follow.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**REAPING DAY - 76th Hunger Games**

 

It takes me a few minutes to find him, but when I do, I’m not surprised to find him already watching me. His blue eyes intense. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even flinch when the mayor steps up to the microphone and taps it, the electronic squeal reverberating across the mountains behind us.

 

The speeches and pageantry begin, I wonder if Peeta’s thinking about the same thing as I am right now.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**TWO MONTHS AGO**

 

My feet know the way to the meadow almost as well as they know their way through my woods back home. It’s our day off, but I won’t be resting. We’ve been meeting in secret, Peeta and I. 

 

He’s taught me to use a knife, up close and dirty, in case I get jumped. I’ve taught him aim so he can throw the knife and hit his target, almost as accurately as Marbel Bixby. He’s learned at least some basics of hunting and archery, enough to be useful. I’ve learned his tricks on building and maintaining fires, including how to mask it so the light can’t be seen if I don’t want it to. He’s finally learned how to climb, either a mountainside or a tree. And we both braved the lake near the meadow and taught ourselves how to swim.

 

Together, we filled in the blanks that ATT either couldn’t teach us or wasn’t willing to spend the extra time on to help us get it right.

 

I clear the last trees and my entire being relaxes. This place is perhaps the most beautiful I’ve found in District Two. My arms spread wide and I spin, taking a deep breath. Peeta’s laugh reaches me and I chuck my canteen at his head. He deflects the blow with his hand, and I notice the pencil between his fingers.

 

“Whatcha working on?” I ask as I reach him, settling my weight on his back, looking over his shoulder at his notebook.

 

“Something frivolous,” he says, but tilts the book for my inspection.

 

“Beautiful,” I murmur. I love watching him draw, the way his capable hands move swift and sure over the page, coaxing beauty from a few particles of graphite.

 

“Not nearly as beautiful as you,” he says and I groan, pushing away from him.

 

“Peeta, we've been through this,” I say, picking up one of the knives he’s brought with him for target practice and flipping it over absentmindedly.

 

“I know, I know,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair in agitation. I shift on my feet and try not to smile at how adorable he looks with his curls mussed up like that, wishing that I could be the one to mess up his hair.

 

“You’ve got your sister,” he says.

 

“And you’ve got to get away from your mother,” I say. We both nod, knowing that whatever we have between us, it can’t be allowed to grow.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**REAPING DAY - 76th Hunger Games**

 

He’s the first to look away, his attention snared by another 18 year old boy, another graduate of ATT, eager for his chance to volunteer. I watch Peeta’s face turn cold and impassive as he talks to the boy. The face of a cold killer. But I know that it’s just a mask.

 

We have a pact, Peeta and I, and although I know I shouldn’t, I trust Peeta to keep his end of the deal. To take care of my family if I should die in the Games. I’ll keep my end, to take care of his should something happen to him in the Games. They might be toxic, but they’re still his family, and Peeta still wants them protected.

 

Everything our trainers and the Victors have told us screams that trust is not a luxury that any of us can afford, but Peeta and I don’t play by their rules.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**TWO WEEKS AGO**

 

I make it to the meadow first and sink down into the lush green grass, close my eyes and let the breezes and the sway of the grass around my body relax the tension from me. For a minute, I pretend that I grew up in a different District, someplace my father might not have had to leave for his traitorous actions. Maybe someplace far from the Capitol, the outlying Districts. Eleven or Twelve, even. Where volunteering would never have been much of an option.

 

It’s silly and frivolous, and for some reason, it makes my eyes sting with tears. Maybe that Katniss wouldn’t have to meet Peeta in secret. Maybe she could care for him openly. Trust him openly. My lips part on a poorly suppressed sob, and to cover it up, I do something I haven’t done in years. I sing.

 

An old love song my father once taught me. My voice starts raw and rough from disuse, but by the third verse, it’s warmed to something magnificent and I sing with more confidence, ending the tune on a tremulous note.

 

Blinking, I return to the world and sense him standing behind me. Abruptly, I stand, nearly losing my balance as I find Peeta watching me, awe written all over his face.

 

“Peeta,” I say nervously and he clamps his mouth shut, swallows, before speaking.

 

“Even the birds fell silent,” he says hoarsely. “Just to hear you sing.”

 

He takes one step towards me and I can’t contain it anymore, this burning need. I fling myself at him, devouring his mouth with mine. He grunts softly as he loses his balance and we tumble into the grass. Then he rolls us over and kisses every inch of my exposed skin, murmuring my name between each softly searing caress.

 

In a month, one of us or both of us will be dead, or we will have failed. Failed to save my family, or to wrench him free of his toxic one. And I know, I need this. I need him. Now.

 

“Peeta, please, just--”

 

He groans as his hands fumble with the buttons of my shirt, eventually giving up and just wrenching it free of my pants so he can kiss the skin hidden beneath. I arch and shout in relief as his teeth close around one nipple. Fingers dig into my ribs as he shifts so his other hand can undo my pants enough to slide beneath the rough fabric.

 

“Oh fuck, Katniss,” he says in a strangled whisper as I rock my hips into his touch. “So fucking wet and soft. All for me? Fuck, I need to taste you.”

 

I whimper as he scoots down my body, my skin cooling in the absence of his warmth. But his hands tug down my pants, leaving them around my knees as he slides between my legs, resting my feet on his back. Then I scream as he starts sucking on my lips and fucking me with his tongue.

 

I’ve never been with a boy, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t touched myself. Already, I feel my release building as Peeta laps at me enthusiastically, ruthlessly pushing me higher and further than I’ve ever gone before. 

 

“Peeta, Peeta,” I desperately pant his name, my own sensual song just for him as he moans into my core and I clench my things around his head. His hands grab them, fingers bruising as he pries my legs apart and nibbles on my clit.

 

My hands fly to his hair as white lightning streaks across the sky and all I can do is stutter and convulse. I’m still coming as he moves up my body. 

 

I whimper and try to find something to hold onto as Peeta undoes his own pants, shoving them down his hips just enough to free his erection before drawing the tip through the sticky mess I’ve made between arousal and release.

 

“Fuck, Katniss,” he groans as he pushes partway into me. “I’ve wanted you so badly, for so long.”

 

My hands settle on his ass and grip him. His gaze travels from where we’re joining, up my body and meeting mine. The rest of the world around us disappears. Narrows to Peeta’s face, his lips and eyes, and the handful of freckles dotting his nose. With a feral growl, I pull him into me, angling my hips up into his. 

 

“Shit,” he gasps, his entire body going tense as he breathes so sharply it almost sounds like he’s hyperventilating. “Fuck, don’t move, Katniss, just wait a second.”

 

I try not squirm, but I feel so full, and I want to squeeze my walls around him, to learn the way my softness accommodates his hardness, how my ridges work with his to turn hunger into pleasure. I want to know these secrets before it’s too late. My walls clench him, as though obeying my wishes.

 

“Fuck,” he spits out and draws himself back. I panic for a moment, forgetting everything I know about animals mating in the instant I think he’s decided that he doesn’t want me. Then he plunges back in with a pained grunt and my nails dig into his ass as I swear the sky above me sparks in gold shimmers. “This might be hard and fast, Katniss. I’m so sorry.”

 

His hips snap into mine, and if I were made of something more fragile, I might worry that he’d break me. But I bend and flex with his thrusts, biting my lips to keeps from yelling about how good it feels to have his cock that deep inside me. Fuck, I don’t even know where I heard words like that, but I want it. I want him to drive me into the grass and dirt and make me forget why I have to volunteer to die.

 

“Ung, feels so good,” Peeta moans, drawing forth desperate mewls from my throat as I feel another orgasm building in my gut, right in front of the spot his dick is stroking. “Can die happy now,” his words slur together as he tries to get them out between frantic groans, “knowing what your pussy feels like on my cock... Knowing they way you look when I make you fall apart... So fucking beautiful... Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“I’m...I’m close, Peeta,” I say as all feeling gathers together in my gut, coiling tight in a spring of need. My hands slide up under his shirt and my nails rake over his skin as my mouth falls open, a silent scream for the birds and the flowers and the mountains to hear as Peeta kisses my ear and whispers to me in a frantic rasp.

 

“Fuck, yes, Katniss. Come on my cock. Fucking come all over me. Please, Katniss. Squeeze me. Shit, I can feel it. I can feel you coming. Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum, too.”

 

The coiled need explodes free and spreads through my limbs, down to my toes, curled so hard they cramp. Peeta’s hips continue to slam into mine in measured thrusts as he pulses inside me. He’s still moving, his abdomen shaking against mine with the effort as a softer release washes over me, pulling a sigh from deep inside me.

 

“Peeta,” I draw his name out into two lengthy moans.

 

He rests his forehead on mine as the feelings finally ebb, our breathing humid and harsh in the small space between our mouths.

 

“Katniss,” he whispers, “If I don’t make it--”

 

“Shut up, Peeta,” I say harshly and yank his lips down to mine.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**REAPING DAY - 76th Hunger Games**

 

I knew this could happen. I did. I told myself I was prepared for it. That I could face it. But as I turn on the stage at the orders of Xander Quintus, the District Two escort, and meet the eyes of the boy who will be my District partner and ally in the arena, my hand shakes and I’m worried that my lip is quivering. Peeta’s eyes are glazed in an unusual sheen, making the blue hue of his irises shockingly vivid, and I know, somehow, that he’s thinking the same thing I am.

 

_ I’m going to die. _

 

Well... I won’t let him.


End file.
